Books, arts and culture

Literary prizes

On face-sitting and literary value

YESTERDAY Philip Roth won the Man Booker International prize, given for a body of work rather than a single novel, and awarded every two years. It is a comparatively new prize—the past winners are Ismail Kadare (2005), Chinua Achebe (2007) and Alice Munro (2009)—and a generous one, coming with a £60,000 ($97,227) purse. Anyone writing in English or whose work has been translated into English is eligible, unlike the more established annual Man Booker prize itself, which is open only to citizens of the Commonwealth, Ireland and Zimbabwe. Initially the Man group, which took over sponsorship of the Booker, wanted to open the prize to Americans, which provoked some concern. Lisa Jardine fretted, "With someone like Roth at his best, I don't see how an Amis or a McEwan could touch him." In the end, Ms Jardine's cringing artistic protectionism won, hence this new prize.

While admitting luck, time and chance figure prominently in literary awards, it still is worth asking: does Mr Roth deserve it? Rick Gekoski, a rare book dealer who chaired the panel of judges, made a pretty strong case that he does: in 1959 Mr Roth wrote "Goodbye, Columbus"; 51 years later he remains in fine form with "Nemesis", his most recent novel. In between the two were some real stinkers ("The Breast", "When She Was Good", "Our Gang" and "The Humbling"), but rare is the author who hits a cultural nerve early in his career, as Mr Roth did with Columbus and "Portnoy's Complaint", and does it again later, as he did with "American Pastoral", "The Human Stain" and "I Married a Communist" in the 1990s. The searing, satirical anger of his early work mellowed into something more melancholy but no less bitter. Rage became disappointment, sadness that occasionally opened (as in "Everyman") to admit a clear-eyed, Larkinesque terror at death's implacability. ("Old age isn't a battle," he wrote in that novel. "It's a massacre.")

And yet he was always himself. What he and Saul Bellow did better than anyone was make you feel that you, as a reader, had a portal directly into their minds, and that what was happening inside their minds was interesting. Occasionally they fell short of the latter ("The Humbling" and "Exit Ghost" were dreadful—boring, repetitive, lurid—while Bellow had "Mr Sammler's Planet" and "The Dean's December", crabbed and crotchety works devoid of the sense of joy and wonder that pervade Bellow at his best), but never the former. That is harder than it sounds. It also risks overshadowing Mr Roth's formal excellence. He is not a showy experimentalist, but neither does he stick to traditional beginning-middle-end stories. "The Plot Against America" was a rare work of alternative-history that was not science fiction. "Operation Shylock" (my favourite of his works, for whatever that's worth) is part mystery and part diatribe. "The Breast" is a tribute to Kafka and Gogol. And so on.

Of course, it would not be a literary prize without some controversy: Carmen Callil, one of the three judges on the panel, quit after they gave the award to Mr Roth. She said she "did not rate him as a writer... He goes on and on about the same subject in almost every book. It's as though he's sitting on your face and you can't breathe." Yes, well, Mr Roth can be a little priapic in his preoccupations. Sometimes that works (Portnoy) and sometimes it doesn't (Humbling, Ghost). But authors have themes, and sex and Judaism are two of his. Some have argued that Ms Callil's having published "Leaving a Doll's House", Claire Bloom's account of her nightmarish marriage to Mr Roth, creates a conflict of interest. It does not. But it does create someone who probably does not like Philip Roth. (Note: The Economist's literary editor has been an administrator of the Man Booker International prize since 2005.)

Mr Gekoski wondered who else in the field they could have chosen over Roth, which is a fair question. After all, they were not awarding the Best Author on the Planet prize, but an award for which a select group of people were eligible. And if anyone wishes to argue that David Malouf, Anne Tyler or Dacia Mariana have produced a more lasting ouevre than Mr Roth, feel free. Ms Callil wondered whether "in 20 years' time will anyone read him". Had she used 100 years as the benchmark it might have been an interesting question. But 20? Certainly. I will, at least.

Readers' comments

I'd argue Roth is the best living American writer, at least of last generation. McCarthy, Pynchon, DeLilo, Franzen...? The fact that we speak of Bellow and Roth in the same sentence shows the latter's greatness greatness and the lasting nature of his work. A review I wrote after reading Portnoy's Complaint: http://danielryanadler.com/2011/04/11/portnoys-complaint-a-review/

Not everyone speak of Bellow and Roth in the same sentence. Alluding to the title of the present article, I don't know that reading Roth is an experience as suffocating as being sat on the face. For me personally, it is more like reading in a room that has windows that are seldom, if ever, opened.

The Economist is becoming more of a tabloid by putting Roth and Bellow in the same sentence and by saying something positive about Portnoy's Complaint and the breast. He is a mediocre writer who will never enter the league of Boll, Grass, Eco.

Once William Faulkner wrote “I’m telling the same story over and over which is myself and the world. That’s all a writer ever does, he tells his own biography in a thousand different terms.” This take on a novelist’s work may be said to describe Roth’s oeuvre as well. Personally, what I ask a novelist is not so much the what, which might be “the same story over and over” again, but the how, the “thousand different terms” he demonstrates to be able to use (I happen to have just written a book about this). Even if I don’t like all of his books, I think Philip Roth has amply demonstrated to be a master of narrative form and he deserves the prize he has just won.

I might value Ms. Callil's opinion of Roth's writing if she had produced a fifth of the American author's work, but since she hasn't . . . Well, let's just say, I'd rather listen to warm air whiffle through flaccid buttocks.

I read carefully your comment, and want to thank you for the quote from Faulkner.

To the extent indeed all a writer ever does or can do is tell his own biography in a thousand different ways, I think Roth has done a good job, good in the sense of honesty and masterfulness with the pen. Those qualities are undoubtedly to be admired. And Roth's work is worthy of admiration.

This takes us to another measure of what is good in all creative arts. I think the breadth of perception and depth of depiction of things outside oneself, abilities that can only emanate from what one does know about oneself, are what marks great literature. No one knows that Shakespeare ever talked about himself. A reader is left with getting to know the great playwright through the absorption of one play after another, one sonnet after another. And if the reader ever finishes them all, he/she'd hunger for the next round.

I think with the works of a lesser writer, the feeling is more like you read one you read them all, however well written.